


simple things (but one thing's clear)

by vampyrekat (nanasalt)



Series: Crossing the Nevsky Prospekt [3]
Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Enclosed You Will Find, F/M, Finally over a year later, I have made you this, Idiots who are in love and also in denial, Mutual Pining, several other tropes because I'm a trope fiend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-24 11:16:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16173962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanasalt/pseuds/vampyrekat
Summary: There are ways and ways to make journeys and not all of them need a definite destination. Sequel toCrossing the Nevsky Prospekt.





	simple things (but one thing's clear)

A knock on the door of the train compartment drove Anya to a sitting position before she was fully awake, years of instinct driving her eyes to the escape routes that were nonexistent in the small train compartment. The window might be large enough, and she’d jumped from a train before - could do it again - but not ideal. Fight instead of flight but she was calming down; the room was familiar even if the countryside outside was not. A quick glance revealed that the bunk beneath hers was empty, and she felt something unknot in her stomach; Gleb Vaganov was a customarily early riser, and loathe to waste his time. There was no threat at the door, not this morning, not today, just her traveling companion and perhaps the idea of coffee and French pastries.

Gleb nudged the open with the guessed-at coffee in hand and Anya’s breathing evened. She wasn’t afraid of him, least of all when he looked like he’d only taken time to finger-comb his hair and quickly dress before leaving the compartment. She vaguely remembered the officer from St. Petersburg, neat and proper and nothing like the soft-eyed man currently frozen on the threshold, coffee and paper in hand while he waited for permission to enter.

“You’re up,” he pointed out politely, and Anya couldn’t help but smile and roll her eyes. Gleb felt the need to talk more than she did, to fill the empty space, and it was oddly charming. Anya swung her feet out of bed and dropped to the floor, grabbing her robe and sliding it on. They’d been traveling for weeks and the luxury had yet to wear off; clean nightgowns, thin carpeting, a heated room and only one person to share it with were simple things, but she still appreciated them. She tied the belt on the robe and glanced up at Gleb, who still lingered in the doorway.

“I am now,” she agreed, and it was permission of a sort.

He gave her a flash of smile and held the cup out; Anya took it and sipped idly. The coffee was strong and black and much richer than the kind they’d both drank in Russia, and she let it gently bring her the rest of the way awake while Gleb shut the door and moved to lean against the window, watching the countryside fly by. The sunlight caught at the loose strands of his hair and hid some of the lingering paleness the Russian winter had left in his skin, soothing the harsher edges she knew he still had. It’d only been a month since they left Russia, even if it felt like longer; neither of them had quite warmed to the French spring yet.

Anya took another sip of coffee and held the cup out. He took it without quite looking at her, leaning against the window as she started undoing the braid she had slept in, moving to the small shelf that held her hairbrush. Gleb countered without thought, twisting so he was against the other side of the window and leaving space for her to sit on the bench. His gaze lingered on the way she tried to unknot the ends of her hair while he sipped the coffee and Anya gritted her teeth. The French styles called for far too many products, and since their time in Paris she’d had more and more troubles brushing them out. The urge to merely return to her Russian braid was stronger each day, and not least when Gleb was grinning as he watched her struggle.

“If you’re going to laugh at me, you can leave,” Anya muttered, and tugged sharply at the knot, succeeding only in making herself hiss in pain. Gleb leaned across the space in a quick motion, the coffee curled against his chest as he deftly tugged a few strands free; her fingers slipped through the snarl so quickly they nearly hit her lap. He bit his lip to stifle a laugh, and Anya gave him a look that she hoped managed to be frustrated and grateful at once as she batted his hand away. He withdrew at once, fingers tightening on the coffee cup as he straightened up.

Anya stared him down calmly, ran the brush through the ends of her hair, and wondered if anyone had ever told him sunlight made his eyes look amber.

“There’s a small art museum,” he began, after a moment, and glanced out the window. Anya remembered to breathe and focused on running the brush through what was left of the knots in her hair. 

“Different from the last five?” she teased curiously, and he snorted.

“Different enough to have one,” he allowed, and despite the mock-disdain in his voice, she could tell he was smiling when he added in French, “It's the French way, excess and frivolity.”

“I would never have guessed you thought so strongly,” she said innocently, stubbornly sticking to Russian. “We’ve seen every piece of art between here and Paris at _your_  suggestion.”

“I’ve been away from Russia too long,” he suggested easily, but there was a catch in his voice, a quiet fear that Anya knew too well. They were both out of their depth here, and the fear of losing their old selves - more than they already had - haunted them both. She set the brush down and stood, leaning against the window opposite him and crossing her arms over her chest. Gleb smiled, briefly, and added, “I’m adjusting to the excess and frivolity.”

The heart-wrenching fear of losing their homeland hung in the air like fog. Anya felt it in her bones, had felt it since she stood on a train platform with a single suitcase and the urge to vomit at the thought of leaving the land that raised her, had felt it since she remembered her French and spoke it with ease, since she had promised to leave Russia forever for a chance to find herself. Gleb hadn’t even had the ease of saying goodbye when he left.

Anya reached out - to comfort, perhaps - and he - deliberately or not - pressed the coffee cup into her hands before they met his arm. She accepted it and curled her fingers around the dwindling warmth, took a sip and wondered if the girl from the hospital would have believed that something could be _pleasantly_  bitter.

“I doubt you’ll ever adjust,” she said firmly, and his gaze shifted from the coffee to meet hers. She smiled. “I’m still shocked, and I was - you know what I was.”

He nodded his somber assurance as though either of them could possibly forget the circumstances of her birth, and glanced out the window again. The train slowed in a squeal of wheels, and Anya braced herself on the window so as not to be thrown forward and almost missed Gleb’s softer, “I’m not the first one to go rogue, Anya.” She glanced up at him, hoping the confusion wasn’t evident, but he added, “I was sent because I _wasn’t_  a risk. I left anyway. What does that say?”

What _did_ it say, that a princess and an assassin had left their homeland together? That the only person in the world who could understand each of them was on the other side? That they had chosen each other over other company, over the family or friends or comrades they _should_  be with? That they passed a coffee cup back and forth and missed Russia with each moment?

“That Russia failed us both.” Anya caught his wrist and shook her head, missed the shock flitting through his gaze. “ _Gleb_. If it hadn’t, we could go home, only --”

“We’d both be shot,” he said, and she laughed. It was a fact, not a threat, and they were both well aware of it. There were doubtless rewards for both of them now, for themselves or for their lifeless bodies. Anya had come to terms with that in a worn down theater, accepted it on a train platform in Leningrad, resolved to see it through in a cramped office while Gleb himself had explained the weight of what she was attempting, but she wondered if Gleb had ever thought to envision a future where he had a price on his head.

The deputy commissioner surely never had, and she knew it must hurt him all the more.

“We’d both be shot,” she agreed in an echo,and tugged his hand up to put the coffee in it. He raised an eyebrow and curled his fingers around the cup without quite taking it; Anya felt the brush of his fingertips against her palm. He met her gaze steadily, still as a statue with his hand warm in hers, and Anya managed to speak before she could do something very foolish indeed. “For now, we’re apparently going to see more of the beautiful, frivolous artwork of France.”

His eyes searched hers for a moment before he laughed and pulled away, the coffee going with him. Anya missed the warmth but didn’t move from where she leaned against the window, waiting to see if he would follow her change in topic. These moments always caught them both off guard, the reminder that Russia was their past and France their future and that words like ‘we’ and ‘they’ could be applied to both, and if she let herself think on it too long she might still do something foolish and push them both out of their easy camaraderie. It was tempting to forget that risk, though, when Gleb watched her so steadily and the light made his eyes all the more intense. Anya watched him right back, and wondered when they would find their breaking point.

The train came to a stop, and the moment was over; Gleb straightened up and tugged his jacket back into place, the intensity in his gaze banked. Anya felt herself relax into the warm morning sunlight and wondered if he would object to her stealing the coffee back.

“I’ll leave you to dress,” Gleb said, almost businesslike, and glanced to the door and back to her with a polite smile. “Do you want breakfast?”

He was adept at offering her ways to be alone; Gleb knew as well as anyone that she rarely ate in the mornings, still too unused to having food available. Anya shook her head. “It would be a waste of your time.” He shrugged and moved to argue, but she put a finger to his lips and startled him into silence. “You can wait for five minutes and I will be ready to go to this museum.” He opened his mouth slightly, like he wanted to argue her out of his own suggestion, and she added firmly, “The museum _or whatever else there is_ in this town, Gleb.”

He reached up to tug her fingers from his mouth and Anya did her best not to look affected by the curl of his fingers around her hand. He didn’t let go for a moment, and then his thumb stroked over the back of her hand and he was gone, moving across the compartment to sit. Anya forced herself to lower her hand to her side naturally.

“I’m sure the town has a hundred cafes,” he suggested lightly after a moment, holding her brush out with a carefully neutral expression that melted into a smile when she rolled her eyes and he added, “Everywhere else in France does.”

“ _More_ French cafes?” Anya plucked the brush from his hand and leaned over to grab her clothes from the drawer beside her bed, shooting Gleb a mischievous smile. They had both complained, after the initial wonder had worn off, about French food and the fact one couldn't turn around without somehow ending up in a new cafe. “I’d rather we try the museum first.”

He hummed in agreement as she pulled the brush from his hand and paused to gave him a commanding look, pointing to him as if it would keep him trapped if he wanted to escape while she wasn't looking. Gleb smiled and made a gesture that seemed to say _I’ll be right here_ , and Anya glanced back as she stepped into the small bathroom, her dress in her arms.

Gleb was glancing out the window, away from her, with a crafted disinterest. His hands were wrapped around the the cup of coffee, and the sunlight had reached halfway up his legs. He looked peaceful, and she wondered for a moment just how far they’d come from Russia, how much further they had to go. This was not half-baked escape, not ruthless pursuit; this journey would be quieter, but Anya found herself oddly more excited by the promise of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I know it's been a while, but I can explain -- no, I can't. But the idea of an imperfect and real happily ever after for a modern-day princess story won't let go of me, and now here I am, writing disjointed little snippets of how Gleb and Anya learn to cope after everything. This story likely won't be as cohesive (or dramatic!) as Crossing the Nevsky Prospekt was, but I think they've earned a rest, don't you?
> 
> As ever, follow my tumblr for more updates and writing snippets at [vampyrekatwrites](http://vampyrekatwrites.tumblr.com/). If you want to see my more general fandom side, my Anastasia blog is at [nanasalt](http://nanasalt.tumblr.com/). Feel free to PM me or send asks! The interaction is what keeps me writing.


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